“I do not understand you, sir.  Why can you not say what you mean, at once?”

“My dear child, I prolong your suspense.  Curiosity is the most powerful of all feminine instincts; and therefore the most delightful, when not prematurely satisfied.  However, if you must have my strong realities, here they are.  Your father slew dear John’s father, and dear John’s father slew yours.”

Having said thus much, the Counsellor leaned back upon his chair, and shaded his calm white-bearded eyes from the rays of our tallow candles.  He was a man who liked to look, rather than to be looked at.  But Lorna came to me for aid; and I went up to Lorna and mother looked at both of us.

Then feeling that I must speak first (as no one would begin it), I took my darling round the waist, and led her up to the Counsellor; while she tried to bear it bravely; yet must lean on me, or did.

“Now, Sir Counsellor Doone,” I said, with Lorna squeezing both my hands, I never yet knew how (considering that she was walking all the time, or something like it); “you know right well, Sir Counsellor, that Sir Ensor Doone gave approval.”  I cannot tell what made me think of this:  but so it came upon me.

“Approval to what, good rustic John?  To the slaughter so reciprocal?”

“No, sir, not to that; even if it ever happened; which I do not believe.  But to the love betwixt me and Lorna; which your story shall not break, without more evidence than your word.  And even so, shall never break; if Lorna thinks as I do.”

The maiden gave me a little touch, as much as to say, “You are right, darling:  give it to him, again, like that.”  However, I held my peace, well knowing that too many words do mischief.

Then mother looked at me with wonder, being herself too amazed to speak; and the Counsellor looked, with great wrath in his eyes, which he tried to keep from burning.

“How say you then, John Ridd,” he cried, stretching out one hand, like Elijah; “is this a thing of the sort you love?  Is this what you are used to?”

“So please your worship,” I answered; “no kind of violence can surprise us, since first came Doones upon Exmoor.  Up to that time none heard of harm; except of taking a purse, maybe, or cutting a strange sheep’s throat.  And the poor folk who did this were hanged, with some benefit of clergy.  But ever since the Doones came first, we are used to anything.”

“Thou varlet,” cried the Counsellor, with the colour of his eyes quite changed with the sparkles of his fury; “is this the way we are to deal with such a low-bred clod as thou?  To question the doings of our people, and to talk of clergy!  What, dream you not that we could have clergy, and of the right sort, too, if only we cared to have them?  Tush!  Am I to spend my time arguing with a plough-tail Bob?”